The wind had begun to pick up in Hobbiton, brushing over the rolling hills and stirring the ivy that clung to the stone chimneys of Bag End. Dusk had just settled — that quiet, golden hour when shadows lengthened and the world seemed to hold its breath.

Thorin Oakenshield stood at the gate, still and unmoving beneath his heavy cloak. The sky above was bruised with the last light of day, and the smoke from his breath curled like ghost-trails in the cool air. Behind him, the winding road was empty, save for the distant clatter of a cart and the low hoot of an owl waking for the night.

He said nothing as he regarded the round green door. His face was half-hidden beneath his hood, but his eyes — sharp, weary, and full of a quiet storm — took in every inch of the peaceful little home. Too small, too quiet, too soft for the road ahead. And yet... this was where the wizard had sent them.

He stepped forward, boots crunching softly on gravel, the weight of his past carried in every stride. With a knuckle scarred from battle and time, he rapped once — firm and final — on the painted wood.

A pause.

Then, from within: a shuffle, a thump, a startled voice.

Thorin waited.

The night, it seemed, had finally begun.